


And ye shall receive

by 1863



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extra Treat, M/M, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: Bruce can't be certain that what he's feeling is real, not with a metahuman manipulating his emotions. But there is one thing that Bruce is absolutely sure of – he'll do whatever it takes to save Clark's life. Even if saving Clark means losing him, too.





	And ye shall receive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Panny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/gifts).

Clark’s face could be carved from stone.

“You’re telling me,” he says, “that all of it – everything – has been a lie?”

Bruce takes a breath and keeps his own face carefully impassive.

“You were there for Victor’s report, Clark.” He stares at a stain on the floor of the cave – motor oil, he thinks, accidentally spilled and left to seep into the concrete until it became a permanent mark – before he lifts his head and meets Clark’s eyes. “The metahuman known as Psycho-Pirate manipulated us. He’s been manipulating us for months. He... reached into our minds, Clark, and made us dance like puppets on a string.”

“So… what now?” Clark’s eyes roam all over Bruce’s face, not so much like he’s searching for something than just not knowing where to land. Or what to hold on to. “Are we just supposed to –” Clark falls silent, suddenly, cutting off whatever he was going to say. 

“Go back to how it was before?” Bruce finishes for him. “Yes.” He pauses for a moment, composing the response in his head before he speaks it out loud. “None of it was real, Clark. Everything that happened – we saw what he wanted us to see. You don’t really know me and I don’t really know you.”

Clark stares at him.

“None of it was real,” he repeats slowly. It sounds like a question but Bruce very deliberately doesn’t treat it as one, not offering any kind of answer. It’s better this way, ripped off like a bandaid and left to scab over to heal on its own. No good would come of pretending otherwise.

“It may still feel… genuine, for now,” Bruce says. “But the team is working on a way to nullify his powers. Diana said that Victor should have an interim solution ready in a couple of days at most.”

Clark doesn’t respond. He just continues to stare, expression unreadable and eyes uncharacteristically guarded. It’s – strange, after everything that’s happened between them, regardless of whether they’d been acting of their own volition or not. It makes Bruce feel oddly adrift, unmoored in a way that makes him instinctively fall back on certain absolutes that he knows will never waver.

“We still have a job to do, Clark,” he says, and straightens. “The mission is the most important thing.” 

“Right,” Clark agrees. “The mission.” 

As if on cue his comm buzzes to life, Victor’s voice filling his ear.

“Cyborg to Batman, do you copy?”

“I copy,” Bruce says. “Superman is here too.”

Clark glances at him but stays silent, just tapping his own comm and listening in. 

“Good,” Victor says. “We’ll probably need both of you.” 

“What’s the problem?”

“Metahuman causing havoc on the outskirts of Metropolis,” Victor replies. Clark’s gaze sharpens. “He seems to be another one of Psycho-Pirate’s victims, manipulated to become enraged. Superman,” Victor adds, an odd note in his voice, “you should know that we’ve gotten reports that someone supplied him with kryptonite.” 

“Who?” Bruce demands. Aside from his own stash in the deepest, darkest corner of the cave, there’s only one other person on the entire planet who might have access to kryptonite and he’s still locked up in Arkham Asylum. 

“Unknown,” Victor says. “And the reports are still unverified. Diana and I still en route – ETA ten minutes. The Flash should get there sooner but Aquaman's busy in Atlantis. Sending you coordinates now.” 

“Acknowledged.” Bruce turns to Clark and pauses, then taps his comm off. Clark does the same. “You should stay here until we’ve confirmed whether or not there’s kryptonite at the scene.”

“Like hell I will.” Clark’s eyes are hard. “He’s in Metropolis, Bruce. I can’t just sit around and watch it get destroyed.”

“You realise this is probably a trap laid specifically for you, right?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Clark turns away and starts heading for the stairs. “Like you said, Bruce. The mission’s the most important thing.”

**

“Batman to Justice League,” Bruce says, taking aim with a grapnel gun and swinging in a wide arc before landing on the street below. “I’m at the scene. Do we have confirmation of kryptonite yet?”

“Not yet,” Diana says. He hears the clang of metal on metal from outside the comm as well as coming through it, and starts running towards the sound. “We may have been premature in calling you in,” she adds. “I don’t think this will take much longer.”

“Yeah,” Barry pipes up. “Guy’s not really putting up much of a fight. Just a lot of yelling, really.”

“What are his abilities?” Bruce demands, still on high alert regardless. Neither Diana nor Barry sound particularly worried but Bruce knows from long experience that it’s never wise to let his guard down until he’s safely back in the cave. 

“Telekinesis,” Victor says. “The extra dose of rage seems to be giving him a boost but he still can’t move anything much heavier than a park bench.” 

Bruce rounds a corner, running through the gate of what looks like a small park. The team’s assessment seems pretty accurate – the metahuman is flinging pieces of the street at Diana and Victor while Barry evacuates the immediate area, but his attacks are haphazard and unplanned; all reaction, no strategy. 

“Okay,” Bruce says. “Someone knock him out. We can take him to Belle Reve and question him about the kryptonite there.” 

“Copy that,” Victor says. The whine of his sound blaster powering up fills the air as he lifts his arm and takes aim. “You might want to cover your ears, guys.” 

Bruce is about to do just that when something streaks through the sky above them, blue and red and vaguely person-shaped, cutting through the clouds and faster than a –

“Superman,” Bruce says into the comm. “The situation’s contained. You don’t have to –”

A sudden gust of wind sweeps through park, strong enough to knock Bruce right off his feet. Or – no, Bruce realises. Not wind. He struggles to sit up, against the force of the air trying to keep him down. Not wind. Clark’s breath.

“Superman,” he says again, louder this time, when he finally manages to get back up on his feet. “I repeat, the situation is contained. Cyborg can –”

“Mission’s not over yet,” Bruce hears him say, although his voice is very quiet. 

Clark hovers above the metahuman’s head, face impassive as he stares him down.

“Surrender peacefully and I promise you’ll be treated well,” he says. 

“And if I don’t?” 

Clark’s eyes start to brighten with a distinctive reddish light.

“I wouldn’t advise that.”

“_Superman_,” Bruce repeats. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Prioritising the mission,” Clark replies. 

“Superman.” It’s Diana this time, and her voice is grave. “You are not in your right mind. Stand down and let us take care of it.” She pauses, then adds more gently, “Let us take care of _you_.”

“She’s right,” Bruce adds quickly. “This must be Psycho-Pirate’s influence as well. You have to fight it, Superman –” 

Clark suddenly turns and looks right at him. His eyes are still visibly tinged with red.

“Why should I?” he asks. “You didn’t.” He tilts his head to the side, contemplating Bruce like a child would contemplate a bug. “Until now, apparently.”

Bruce just stares at him. Clark’s face is stony again, hard and remote in a way that feels distinctly, uncomfortably alien_. _He weighs the risk – he’d encrypted the comms himself and even Victor would have a hard time breaking the code – then meets that blood-red gaze head on.

“Clark,” he says, very quietly.

Something flickers in Clark’s eyes, a bare ripple disturbing the surface of his expressionless face. 

“Just let us help you,” Bruce continues, in the same soft, careful tone. Not Batman’s modulated growl, not Bruce Wayne’s insouciant drawl. Just Bruce’s own voice, the one he only uses when he’s with people he trusts – Alfred, the League. “Clark,” he repeats, and knows he sounds different again now, that this is a voice no one but Clark has heard in a long, long time. “Please.”

And something about it must get through the veil of Psycho-Pirate’s control, because Clark blinks slowly and the red starts to fade. He frowns down at Bruce with a look of confusion and worry on his face, glancing around at the scene below him as though he doesn’t even know where he is.

“Bru–,” he starts, and stops. “Batman,” he says instead. “What –”

But then Clark’s eyes go wide, and he lowers his head and looks down at himself, and it takes far too long for Bruce to understand what he’s seeing, the visual refusing to sink in or make any sense: a glowing green shard sticking out of Clark’s uniform, dripping with blood and piercing right through the symbol on his chest.

“What,” Clark repeats blankly, and drops out of the sky like a stone.

Diana is at his side in an instant. Victor fires the sound cannon almost as quickly but for a few interminable seconds, all Bruce can do is watch it all happen with uncomprehending eyes. There are any number of things he _should_ be doing – helping to restrain the metahuman, giving Alfred a report, negotiating with Belle Reve. But when he finally shakes himself out of his stupor his body seems to move purely on instinct, only interested in one thing – getting to Clark and checking whether or not he's still alive.

He is. Barely.

“You’re fine,” Bruce says. His voice is surprisingly calm. “You’re okay. Let me just –” His fingers close around the piece of kryptonite but Clark gasps in pain, grabbing his wrist and shaking his head.

“No,” he wheezes. His voice is wet, wet and thick, and Bruce knows exactly what that means – a punctured lung. And Kryptonian physiology being what it is, he also knows that if the kryptonite when through Clark’s lungs it had to have gone through his heart, too. “Bruce –”

“You’re _fine_,” Bruce snaps, anger making his voice sharp-edged and rough, anger that he and Clark both know isn’t really anger at all. “You’re fine, Cl– You’re _Superman_, for Christ’s sake –” 

He tries to wrap his fingers around the kryptonite again but can't get a firm grip, the shard smeared with too much blood – blood that’s still pouring out of the wound even now, still spreading over Clark’s suit and flooding the torn symbol with a terrible, darker shade of red. Or maybe it’s the way Bruce’s hands are trembling, shaking in a way he can’t even control, and whatever Bruce is feeling turns into something so razor-sharp and white-hot that he can feel it practically burning through his lungs when he forces himself to take a steadying breath. 

Except that it doesn’t steady him at all. If anything, it just emphasises the fragility of what little composure he has left.

“I can’t pull it out,” Bruce says, laying his shaking hands on either side of the kryptonite. “I can’t – ”

Clark’s breathing has gone thin, laboured in a way that Bruce has never, ever heard it. Their eyes meet and Bruce almost wishes he could look away, that he was the kind of person who would avert their eyes when confronted with something they didn’t want to see. But Bruce has never been able to turn a blind eye to suffering, never, and so he keeps staring into Clark’s blue, blue eyes, gone bright with pain and regret and, worst of all, a trace of fear. 

Clark knows he’s dying, and he knows there’s nothing Bruce can do about it.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, barely above a whisper. It’s so horrifically inadequate but Clark actually smiles.

“For what?” he manages to ask. He coughs suddenly, violently, and now there’s blood on his teeth and his lips as well as all over his chest. “You said it yourself,” he adds. “None of it was real.” 

Clark’s words slice right through Bruce with such perfect accuracy, he might as well be lying in a pool of blood himself. 

“Clark –”

“I don’t regret it, though. Not a second of it.” He smiles again. It looks painful, and he still looks afraid, and it makes him look so young that the tremor in Bruce's hands gets even worse. It suddenly hits Bruce just how much of a normal life Clark gives up, just to do what he believes is right. And now, he’s about to give it _all_ up. Again. “Bruce –”

“Shh. Don’t try to talk.” He’s dimly aware of the others standing around them, keeping their distance but close enough to do something if Bruce indicates that he needs their help. “It’s okay, we’ll –”

“If I could,” Clark says, blindly reaching up until he finds Bruce’s hands, still pressed against his chest, “if I could, I’d do it all again.” 

Then Clark’s breath hitches, and his eyes unfocus, and when he finally goes still – absolutely still, so still that Bruce knows he’ll never move again – Bruce’s grief is eclipsed only by his searing, monstrous rage. 

“Get the metahuman to Belle Reve,” he hisses, “and get Psycho-Pirate ready for interrogation.” 

Bruce allows himself one last, brief moment to stare at Clark’s unseeing eyes before he reaches down and closes them. His fingers leave bloody smears across Clark’s eyelids and Bruce has to close his own eyes too, unable to bear the sight. 

_I’d do it all again_.

“Me too,” Bruce admits in a whisper, now that Clark can’t hear him confess. “I’d do it all again, too.” 

And that’s when he feels the world around him shift, the whole planet tipping forward on its axis, and before Bruce can even open his eyes again he knows that something’s just gone very, very –

**

“Up there?” Clark asked, pointing.

“Yeah.”

He lifted the sheet of titanium above his head with apparently no effort at all, then floated up and held it in place with one hand. Bruce took a moment to shake his head – if nothing else, Clark’s insistence on staying to help at least made making repairs to the batplane that much easier.

He climbed up the scaffolding until he was level with Clark, then started welding the sheet to the damaged fuselage. A sudden thought popped up in his head and he stopped, flipping his face guard up. 

“You could even do this too, couldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked, blinking.

“I mean, I don’t even need the welder.”

“Well, yeah," Clark admitted, then grinned. "But I get the feeling you might be a little… possessive. About your toys, I mean.”

Bruce shook his head again. 

“And here I was about to thank you for staying after the briefing to help me with the plane.”

“I’m happy to help,” Clark said quickly. “Any time.” 

He sounded like he meant it – and really, of course he did. He always meant it. Clark’s sincerity was something Bruce wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to but that didn’t mean he doubted it was real. He’d seen proof of it far too often to think it was just an act. 

Clark frowned at him a little and Bruce quickly folded the guard back down. The prospect of Clark seeing his thoughts on his face was – unpleasant, and even though he knew that Clark could look right through the mask anyway if he wanted to, he also knew that Clark wouldn't. Would never. 

“At least the damage isn’t too bad,” Bruce said. “The mission went better than I expected; I thought Psycho-Pirate would put up more of a fight.”

“Yeah, me too.” Clark shifted a little, pressing the sheet more firmly against the belly of the plane. “Vic’s still running tests though, right? We still don’t know if destroying the mask was enough to stop his powers.”

“Mmm,” Bruce agreed, carefully running the torch over the edge of the sheet in a steady, straight line. “We know he can’t make psionic constructs without it. But yes…” Bruce trailed off. “I suspect there’s more to his abilities than that, though.”

“Really? What makes you think so?”

Bruce glanced up. There was genuine curiosity in Clark's voice and Bruce didn't know why it caught him off guard, but it did. Clark was a journalist, after all. He was curious about everything.

“I’ve run comparisons on his abilities with other metahumans we’ve dealt with in the past," Bruce said. “There are some interesting anomalies.” He paused, considering the implications, weighing up the pros and the cons. Letting Clark stay to help with repairs was one thing, but inviting him back was another. It could lead to a dangerous precedent. But Clark's company wasn't as uncomfortable as Bruce thought it would be, and his presence could be useful if ever he needed another pair of hands. Maybe a precedent wouldn't be a bad thing after all. “You could come over again tomorrow, if you like,” he added. “I can show you the data.”

Clark blinked, surprised but clearly pleased. “Thanks,” he said, and smiled. “I’d like that a lot.”

And when Bruce felt an answering smile tug at his own mouth, he couldn't help but feel a little relieved that the face guard was still down.

**

He jerks awake to the sound of an alarm blaring in his ear.

Bruce stares blankly at the glowing blue figures on the display, about an arm’s length away. Six in the morning, right on the dot. Far earlier than when he usually gets up, never mind the fact that the clock itself is some cheap white plastic thing that he’d never buy himself. He’s still half-asleep when he reaches over and hits the snooze button, before some instinct compels him to turn it off altogether. 

“Thanks,” someone says from the other side of the bed, voice still rough with sleep. 

Bruce freezes. It couldn’t be – _no_, he thinks. No. That's impossible.

“Make sure it’s off, though.” A yawn, then a quiet chuckle. “You keep hitting the snooze and then get mad when it starts up again in ten minutes.”

_No_, Bruce thinks again. It _couldn’t_ be – 

But he’d know that voice anywhere. He knows what it sounds like first thing in the morning and last thing at night, what it sounds like shouting during an argument and when it’s breathlessly moaning his name. He knows what it sounds like when it’s full of laughter, and when it’s thick with regret, and now – now he knows what it sounds like when it’s dying, too.

Bruce slowly turns his head.

“Hey,” Clark says, and gives him a sleepy grin. “Sorry, I know you hate my alarm but not all of us are CEOs. I can’t just waltz into the Planet whenever I feel like it.”

He reaches out and slides his fingers into Bruce’s hair before leaning over to give him a quick kiss. And that’s what cuts through the fog of Bruce’s disbelief, the thing that makes it sink in that this is real and not some trauma-induced hallucination – the brush of those lips against his, by now too familiar to be successfully faked. It really _is_ Clark in bed with him, Clark’s skin that’s smooth and warm beneath his palms; it really is Clark’s fingers tightening in his hair. And then Bruce is dragging him closer, clutching at his shoulders and pulling Clark on top of him just to feel the whole solid weight of him against his chest.

“Bruce, what –” Clark starts, surprised, but cuts off with a gasp when Bruce gets their hips lined up. “God,” he breathes, “you’re already hard.”

“I –” 

_Lost you_, Bruce doesn’t say. _Saw you blee– Watched you d–_

But then Clark kisses him properly, tongue licking in, and Bruce shoves those other thoughts aside. He gets his hands under the waistband of Clark’s underwear, cupping his ass and guiding his movements, making Clark roll his hips in time with his own until they’ve worked up a rhythm that’s got them both moaning. 

“Bruce,” Clark whispers into his ear, as his breath hitches and his back tenses up. “God, how do you always – feel so –”

Whatever he was going to say dissolves into a moan as Bruce digs his fingers deeper into the firm curve of his ass. 

“It’s –” Bruce pants, “your own damn fault – ”

There’s a warm puff of air against his neck when Clark laughs a little, breathless and amused and – Bruce has to shut his eyes. Happy, he thinks, as something awful happens inside his chest and his gut clenches with sudden fear, even as he can feel Clark starting to lose control. Clark sounds happy, but he couldn’t be happy, he couldn’t be anything at _all_ –

Clark comes with a sharp gasp, shuddering and collapsing against Bruce's body in a way that's so familiar, it hurts.

“That’s one way to start the day,” Clark murmurs when he's got his breath back. He starts moving down Bruce’s bare chest and stomach, trailing kisses as he goes. “But I think I can do you one better.” 

“Clark –”

His underwear is tugged out of the way so fast that Clark must have used his superspeed, because before Bruce even finishes saying his name Clark’s mouth is on him, knowing exactly how and where to touch, how to make Bruce forget about everything other than the feeling of his hands and lips and tongue. 

“Fuck,” Bruce gasps, shutting his eyes and unable to keep from bucking up into that soft, wet heat. “_Clark_ –”

He’s so good at this, and even better considering that he’d never done it before Bruce taught him how. Clark sucks hard, head bobbing, throat relaxing and Bruce can only lie there and take it, helpless under Clark’s mouth and tongue, held down against the sheets until he comes too – so quickly and so hard that it would be embarrassing if it didn't feel too goddamn good for him to care. 

Clark crawls back up the bed when he's spent and gives him a thorough, dirty kiss, letting Bruce taste himself on his tongue.

“Good morning,” Clark says against his mouth, when he finally pulls back. His own mouth curves into a satisfied smile.

“Morning,” Bruce manages, voice still a little unsteady, and not just because of the blowjob. 

“You make it really hard to go to work sometimes,” Clark murmurs, curling around him and absently dropping kisses along his collarbone. “It’s not very fair.”

Bruce can feel Clark’s heartbeat against his side, where Clark is pressed against him. Strong and steady and irrefutable proof that Clark isn’t – that he's still –

“What’s the date today?”

“The twenty-fifth,” Clark replies. “Why?”

The twenty-fifth. April 25. It was already May when they fought the telekinetic in Metropolis; Bruce remembers because notifications from Wayne Enterprises kept popping up on his phone about overdue Q1 reports that he needed to sign.

One week, Bruce realises. He's been thrown back one week. A week before they found out what Psycho-Pirate did to them; a week before Clark died in his arms. That must be why Clark is so happy, why they’re even together here at all – they’re both still under Psycho-Pirate’s influence, Bruce’s knowledge of it apparently not granting any kind of immunity to his powers. 

But none of that matters, not really. The truth will come out eventually, and with it will come the end of – whatever this is. Or was. He glances down at Clark, still half-draped over him. Everything has a price, Bruce thinks, and nothing is ever gained without giving something up. 

It’s not even real, he tells himself, as the heat of Clark’s body seeps into his skin, blanketing him with a warmth that he already knows he’ll miss. A byproduct of metahuman influence, hormones forcibly released, brainwaves twisted and turned. That's all this is. None of it means anything.

So if saving Clark means losing Clark, then there's really no decision to make. His path is clear. 

No matter what it takes – or what it might cost him – Bruce will make things right again.

**

The enormity of what just happened doesn’t hit him until Clark finally makes it out of bed and out the front door, when Bruce is alone and drinking a cold cup of coffee in an apartment he knows as well as his own house by now.

He saw Clark die. He heard it, he _felt_ it happen – the shudder in that last shallow breath as it left Clark's torn-up lungs; the utter stillness of his whole body right afterwards. And yet, Bruce just saw Clark leaving for work. Felt Clark’s lips brush his cheek as he said goodbye; heard him fucking whistle as the door clicked shut behind him.

It’s impossible. It’s completely, absolutely impossible. 

But then, Clark’s entire existence has always been impossible.

Bruce accesses the cave’s database from his phone and checks the current prisoner manifest of the Belle Reve containment facility. Psycho-Pirate should still be in custody, all Bruce has to do is –

_0 search results._

Bruce stares at the screen. He retypes the search enquiry, using every possible variation of spelling and capitalisation and spacing, but the results are always the same.

Psycho-Pirate isn’t in Belle Reve.

Bruce sits down at the kitchen bench and drains the last of his coffee. Stay calm, he tells himself. He just needs to approach it like any other case. Facts, he thinks. List the facts of the case as he knows them, and then go from there. 

Fact one: he’s travelled back in time, by approximately one week. Or has he? There are other possibilities, and he needs to rule them all out before he can go any further. 

Alternate dimension? Unlikely, if only due to being thrown a week into the past. If Bruce _has _somehow travelled to a different dimension, there's no reason for him to not be in the same time period that he left. 

Hallucination? More likely, but Bruce has faith in his own abilities, in the years of work it took to train his mind and body to resist anything that could alter his perception of reality. It’s possible that it could be the result of something even he's helpless to fight against, something other than drugs or poison – like magic, perhaps, or alien tech, or another metahuman’s powers. But there was nothing at the park to indicate the presence of anything like that. 

Coma? Again, possible but unlikely. All threats were subdued and the rest of the League were only a few feet away. There was very little chance that anything could have knocked him out after Clark was attacked. 

The simplest explanation, then, is time travel. And despite twenty-plus years of battling the most disturbed of criminals and ending up in the strangest of situations, experience still tells him that the more straightforward the possibility, the more likely it is to be true. 

Fact two: not everything is the same this time around. Bruce doesn’t remember waking up in Clark’s bed like this, or at least, not exactly like this. And more importantly, Psycho-Pirate isn’t in Belle Reve. 

Which means that Psycho-Pirate is still at large. That they never caught him, never destroyed his mask, and haven't discovered the full extent of his powers yet. And that implies that either Psycho-Pirate or the telekinetic is the most likely source of the time travel. 

Fact three: Bruce can’t do anything about fact one. But he can do something about fact two. 

If he can find Psycho-Pirate and put a stop to everything before the League fights the telekinetic, then he can save Clark's life. He can make things right again.

“Find Psycho-Pirate,” Bruce says. “That’s all I need to do.”

It’s just another case, he tells himself, as he slips his coat on and heads out, intent on making his way to the cave. Just another case. Nothing more.

**

“I’m sure you’re already aware of this,” Alfred says, fingers barely pausing over the keyboard as he types a string of code, “but it would be remiss of me not to point out that this would be a far more efficient exercise if you actually gave me all of the details of the case.”

“There’s nothing more to tell.” Bruce’s hands are flying over a keyboard of his own, at a different workstation, mapping all of Psycho-Pirate’s recent activities and trying to extrapolate where he might turn up next. “You have the pertinent information already. Clark’s in danger and finding Psycho-Pirate is the key to keeping him safe.”

“So you’ve said,” Alfred replies. “And yet you haven’t told me how you know this, or why you’re so sure you’re right, or even why you haven’t shared this information with the Justice League. Or, indeed, with Master Kent himself.” 

The typing stops, and even though Bruce is facing the opposite direction he knows that Alfred's eyes are on him – he can practically feel them boring right into the back of his head. Bruce has to resist the instinct to hunch over, like he did when he was still a child and Alfred caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. 

“It’s my mistake to fix, Alfred.” 

There’s the tiniest catch in his voice, so faint that anyone else would have dismissed it as nothing, or else failed to notice it all. But Alfred hears it, and Bruce knows he hears it, and he knows that Alfred will understand what it must mean.

“Ah,” Alfred says, after a brief, heavy pause. “I see.” 

The typing resumes, and Bruce isn't sure whether or not he should be grateful that Alfred knows him well enough to not press the issue any further.

**

Bruce knows he has an obsessive streak. 

It’s served him well – the punishing years he spent training before returning to Gotham and creating the Bat; the endless nights that followed tracking down hundreds of criminals and villains. When Bruce puts his mind to something, he’ll always get it done.

But he’s also self-aware enough to know that his obsessions have cost him, too. Dearly, in some cases. The face of a child flits through his mind, brightly costumed and grinning, a child he came to think of, eventually, as his own. Bruce always forces himself to recall the end of that particular story – the blood and the bruises, the unnatural angles of twisted limbs and broken bones. He knows that refusing to forget is a form of obsession too, but reliving the pain is all can do now, the only punishment left that he can still receive. It’s not enough – it’s never enough – but Bruce will take what he can get.

So he knows what Clark is trying to say in his long, silent stares, and what he’s trying to ask in the increasing hesitation of his touch. Bruce knows that Clark is worried about him, that Clark is fully aware he’s keeping secrets and doesn’t understand why. And Bruce sees all of this, and knows it’s hurting him, and still makes a conscious choice to ignore it.

He needs to find Psycho-Pirate. He’s doing it to save Clark’s life. Everything else is secondary.

**

Another day, another dead end. Bruce slams the car door shut in frustration. The week is almost up, just another day to go, and he has no idea what will happen when he catches up to the point where he was thrown back in time. Will they still find out Psycho-Pirate’s true abilities? Will they still fight the telekinetic? Will Clark still end up with a piece of kryptonite embedded in his –

Bruce shakes his head, forcing his his thoughts to clear.

“Focus,” he mutters to himself. “There’s still time.”

He fishes his phone out of his pocket to check whether Alfred found any promising leads, and sees the notification for a voicemail message. It’s from Clark.

Bruce frowns. He puts the phone on speaker as he heads up to the house. 

“Hey, Bruce,” Clark starts. “It’s me.” He sounds oddly hesitant. “Listen, I – I know you’ve been busy with a case and that’s – that’s fine. You have a lot on your mind. But I just…” He trails off and sighs. “Actually, you know what? Forget it. I’m just being stupid. You’re – you’re you. This is what you do. I knew that going in.” Another sigh, softer this time. “Anyway, I’m calling because we couldn’t contact you through comms. I’m guessing you were in a blackout zone or something? But the League got a call for a mission just now. Nothing huge, so I’m going to go ahead without you and meet the rest of the team there. Some kind of telekinetic causing mischief in Metropolis –”

Bruce drops the phone. He doesn’t hear the rest of the message, already in the cave and suiting up when Clark’s voicemail ends, voice so quiet that Bruce might not have heard it even if he hadn’t taken off as soon as he realised what was happening.

“I miss you, Bruce. See you soon.”

**

He’s too late. 

Bruce can’t believe it. Some twist of fate gave him an extra week to fix things and he’s still too fucking late. 

Clark is already on the ground by the time Bruce gets to the park, where he falls to his knees at Clark’s side. Superman can crush rock into rubble, can crumple steel like it's paper, but right now Clark can barely squeeze Bruce’s shaking hands.

Fact four, Bruce thinks blankly, staring at the blood spreading over Clark’s suit, at the sickly green glow illuminating his face. Another point of difference here: Clark doesn’t look afraid. 

“Sorry,” Clark rasps, voice wet and rough. “Guess I should’ve waited for you after all.”

“Clark,” Bruce says. “Clark, I –”

He can’t believe he’s here again, forced to relive it as though once wasn’t already more than enough. Clark’s blood on his hands again, thick and red and sticky again – so much of it, too much, so much that Bruce can almost feel it soaking through his own suit and marking him with his failure forever.

“Glad you’re here,” Clark says, coughing a little, and Bruce doesn’t even know what to say anymore, has no idea what he can possibly do. He hates feeling helpless, _hates_ it – he turned himself into the Gotham Bat to avoid having to feel like this ever again and yet here is, for a second time, practically drowning in it. Just like Clark is drowning in his own blood.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispers, forcing the words out. His throat feels like sandpaper. _I’m sorry I got here too late. I’m sorry I ignored your call. I’m sorry I keep failing you, again and again and –_

But Clark shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t change a thing,” he says, and of course, Bruce thinks, of course Clark would use what little life he has left to reassure someone else. “You know,” he adds. “You know I’d do it all again.”

And Clark stops breathing, and the world starts to tilt, and Bruce –

**

“Thanks again for your help with this article,” Clark said. “I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem. Wayne Enterprises can always use some good press.” Bruce slid the glass of orange juice across the counter. “Consider it payback for helping me with the plane last week.”

Clark frowned a little. “You don’t have to pay me back for that. I did it because I wanted to.” He looked up at Bruce then, a faint edge of worry in his voice. “You know that, right?”

“Sure,” Bruce said easily, but Clark’s frown deepened. “Drink your juice, son,” he added, wanting to forestall any further questioning, and that got him the reaction he’d been aiming for – a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head. Better that than the frown, anyway.

“Sure, mom,” Clark replied, amused, and lifted the glass to his lips. He tilted his head back and started drinking, mouthful after mouthful, swallow after swallow, eyes still trained on Bruce the entire time. 

Bruce watched the movement of Clark’s throat for a moment, Adam’s apple bobbing as he downed the entire glass. Then Bruce looked up, meeting Clark’s gaze, and Clark’s eyes seemed to brighten suddenly – with silent laughter as well as something else, something that was a little more difficult to describe. Neither of them looked away as Clark continued to drink, not until Bruce started to raise his own glass – and then Clark’s gaze flicked down to his mouth, drawn by the movement when he parted his lips. 

“You must have been a hit at college keg parties,” Bruce said eventually.

“No,” Clark replied, when he finished his juice and set the empty glass back down on the counter. He arranged his face into such a picture-perfect look of midwestern innocence that Bruce couldn’t stop a smile from curving his lips, threatening to become a full-blown grin.

“I never went to parties,” Clark added, solemn and earnest and probably lying through his teeth. “I was a model student.” 

Bruce snorted. “I’ll bet you were, farmboy.” 

**

He’s already reaching for the alarm this time before it even goes off. The clock tells him it's 5.36 a.m., as does his phone when he takes it from the nightstand, moving carefully so as not to jostle the bed. 

Bruce accesses the cave’s computers and executes the same search that he did the last time. And just like before, the search yields no results. 

Psycho-Pirate still isn’t in custody, and his whereabouts are still unknown. 

Bruce swallows a curse of frustration and sets the phone aside. He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, willing himself to calm down. He can hear the steady breathing of someone lying next to him and still sound asleep; he can feel the warmth of their bare skin where it’s pressed against his side. He knows it’s Clark, knows that he’s gone back to the morning of April 25 and that Clark is once more alive and well. But it still takes Bruce several long minutes before he can make himself turn his head and actually _see _it – Clark’s eyes closed in sleep, not in death; Clark’s chest intact and not pierced and bleeding. 

The sight of him makes Bruce feel oddly numb. He wonders whether it means that he’s finally broken free of Psycho-Pirate’s influence, and if that's the case, he knows he should be relieved about it – happy, even. But Bruce recognises the feeling that suddenly seizes his chest and twists his stomach and knows it’s not relief, or happiness, or anything even close to either of them at all. 

It’s what he felt as an eight-year-old boy in an empty cavern of a house, what he felt as a forty-year-old-man encasing a desecrated uniform in a box made of the clearest glass he could find. It’s what he’s felt for the past week and change, even though he’s tried his best to push it aside and focus on what needs to be done.

It’s grief.

Bruce reaches out and sweeps his fingers over Clark’s temple, brushing back a curling lock of dark hair. One week, he thinks. He’s been given one more week. By whom or what Bruce doesn’t know, but there has to be a reason he keeps going back – and what else could it be, really, if not to save a man who has the ability to save the whole world. Who _has_ saved it already. More than once. 

Bruce settles his hand against the side of Clark’s neck, feeling Clark’s pulse beating steadily against his palm. His chances should be better this time around if Psycho-Pirate’s manipulations no longer work on him. 

But then Clark’s eyes flicker open, and recognition and warmth fill his gaze, and Bruce knows at once that nothing has changed at all. His heart still skips a beat, and Clark still smiles at the sound of it, and when Clark reaches for him and pulls him closer Bruce is helpless to do anything but let himself be pulled. 

“Morning,” Clark murmurs against his lips. 

Bruce tries to say it back but the word gets stuck in his throat. 

“Hey,” Clark says, frowning a little. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Bruce manages. “I was just – still half-asleep.” 

Clark’s frown deepens. “No, you weren’t. You were already awake when I woke up.” He starts to pull back and Bruce instinctively tightens his arms around Clark’s neck, stopping him from moving any further away. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on in that complicated head of yours, Bruce,” Clark adds with a small sigh, “but I do still need to get out of bed. I have to go to work.”

The idea comes to Bruce fully-formed before Clark even finishes speaking.

“Why?” he asks.

Clark laughs a little, equal parts amused and disbelieving. “What do you mean, why? Of course I have to go to work. I have a job, Bruce.” He shakes his head. “Not all of us are CEOs who can just waltz into the office whenever we feel like it.”

Bruce goes still. Not the exact same words, but close enough. It has to mean something, surely. But what?

“Bruce?” 

Clark is frowning again and Bruce knows his window of opportunity is starting to close – Clark would only let his brooding go so far. He digs up a Bruce Wayne smile, sly and heated but not insincere, and slides even closer, until they’re pressed together from chest to stomach to hip. 

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to take a break?” he asks, pitching his voice low and slipping a thigh between Clark’s legs. He finds heat and hardness there already and his smile widens into a grin. “Or maybe you don’t need convincing after all.”

“You’re such a jerk sometimes, you know that, right?” 

But Clark is smiling as he says it, something deeper than fondness in his eyes, and Bruce leans over and kisses him just to avoid having to see it for too long. 

_Not real, _Bruce reminds himself, even as his breathing goes ragged and he tugs Clark closer; even as his chest tightens when Clark moans his name. _None of this was ever real. _

**

Bruce manages to talk Clark into staying home for the entire week, the unprecented sight of him clearing his own calendar tipping the balance, even more than the prospect of starting the next few days with unhurried, lazy morning sex again. Bruce is a busy man even without Batman taking up half his life, and Clark’s eyes are wide as he watches Bruce make all the arrangements.

“Done,” Bruce says, ending the last of a long series of calls. “Lucius is taking care of Wayne Enterprises, Alfred is taking charge of the patrols, and Jim is keeping an eye on all my open cases.” He looks up at Clark and raises an eyebrow. “Convinced I mean it, now?”

Clark is still staring at him. “A whole week? I have you all to myself for a whole, uninterrupted week?” 

“A whole week,” Bruce confirms. He looks Clark in the eye and tries to keep his voice from sounding too serious, tries to remember that he’s doing this to save Clark’s life for the whole world’s benefit, and not just his own.

He tries. He fails. 

“For a whole week,” Bruce adds, voice too quiet, eyes too soft, “I’m all yours, Clark.”

**

The days bleed into each other, each one rolling into the next so smoothly that Bruce almost lets himself relax. Because it’s – it’s _good_. Really good. It’s better, really, than Bruce could have ever predicted. They don’t even do anything that interesting – just drift from room to room, ostensibly watching TV or reading books or sharing meals, but not really doing much of anything at all. And it doesn’t even matter, because even doing nothing together is still doing something together and that still feels like a novelty for them both.

And the sex, as always, is spectacular – hard and frantic, or slow and drawn-out; in the bed or on the couch or in the shower; up against walls or bent over the kitchen bench.

In other words, it’s a perfect plan, perfectly executed. Bruce doesn’t know where Psycho-Pirate is but he does know where _Clark_ is, and that means he can still keep Clark safe.

Everything is perfect – right up until it isn’t.

“You heard what Victor said,” Bruce says, again. “The rest of the team can handle it on their own, Clark. We don’t need to be there.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually willing to ditch Batman duty for once,” Clark replies, shaking his head and already pulling on the Superman suit. “I know what Vic said, but the problem’s right here in Metropolis, Bruce. My home. Surely you of all people can understand why I need to help?” 

Bruce clamps down on the sense of inevitability that starts bearing down on him, descending like a suffocating cloud.

“You don’t know what you’ll be facing.” 

He hears the strain in his own voice and briefly closes his eyes. _What the fuck is wrong with you_, he berates himself, frustrated by his lack of self-control. He knows what the answer is – Psycho-Pirate and his goddamn metahuman powers, manipulating his emotions and breaking down his walls – but he also knows what’s really wearing him down. 

Fear. 

He swallows and tries again.

“Clark –”

“Bruce, we’ve talked about this.” Clark is fully suited up now and a cold knot of dread settles in Bruce’s stomach, as the situation slides further and further out of his control. “I know I don’t have as much experience at this as you do but I’m not an idiot, either. I do know what I’m doing.” He smiles, trying to be reassuring, but Bruce knows exactly what’s waiting for him out there and can’t smile back. “Come on, Bruce,” Clark says, exasperated. “I am literally invulnerable.”

Bruce stares at the symbol on his chest, remembers it soaked through and dripping with blood.

“Not from everything,” he says. His voice is rough, throat gone bone-dry.

Clark’s face softens. 

“Are you ever going to let that go?” 

Bruce freezes, mind instantly going off in half a dozen tangents at once – did Clark know what happened? Did he remember? Was he thrown back in time too? Or maybe –

“That was over a year ago, Bruce.” 

Doomsday, Bruce realises. Clark is talking about Doomsday.

“That was different,” Clark adds. “I understand why you felt like you had to do what you did back then, but what happened afterwards…” He trails off and his voice becomes so gentle that Bruce starts shaking his head before Clark even finishes the sentence. “It wasn’t your fault, Bruce.”

There’s compassion in his eyes but all it does is remind Bruce of those eyes clouding over, of them turning sightless and dull. 

“You died,” Bruce says. His voice is hoarse with the memory of it. Memories, plural. “Clark, you – you _died_.” 

“And I came back. You and the League, Bruce – you brought me back.” 

_So why can’t I do it this time_, Bruce doesn’t say. _Why the hell am I even here?_

“Bruce,” Clark says, a stronger note of worry in his voice now. “What is going on with you?”

“Stress,” Bruce says automatically, distracted by trying to find a pattern, a logical path that he might have missed. “Work stress.”

“Work stress,” Clark repeats. “Bruce, we haven’t left the apartment for days.” When there’s no answer, Clark makes a frustrated noise. “Alright, fine. Keep your secrets if you want to. I’m going to help the League.”

“No, wait –”

But Clark is out the window and in the air before Bruce can even reach for him, and as the sonic boom sounds when Clark really takes off, Bruce closes his eyes and does something he hasn’t done since he was a child. 

“Please,” he says to the empty room. He doesn't know if it's a god or a demon or just another metahuman that’s making him go through this again and again, but right now, Bruce doesn't care. “Send me back. Give me another chance.” He thinks about maybe putting the batsuit on, about being there when Clark meets his end again, but he’s been there twice already and it didn't make a damn bit of difference. 

“Please,” Bruce repeats. “Let me try again.”

He thinks of Clark. He thinks of _only_ Clark. And eventually the world starts to tilt, just like it did before – but this time, Bruce is expecting it. This time, he just surrenders, and lets himself fall right along with it.

**

“You want an icepack or something?”

“Ha, ha.” Clark grimaced as he got out of the batmobile, rolling his shoulders and tentatively stretching a little. 

“I’m serious,” Bruce replied, watching the way his back moved with each movement. The Superman suit really didn’t hide anything, every ripple of every muscle as clear to see as if Clark wasn't wearing anything at all. “No point in suffering just because the effects of the magic will wear off soon.” 

Clark sighed. “I guess you’re right.” Then he glanced over and grinned. “I bet you have a whole freezer full of them somewhere down here, don’t you? I can only imagine how sore you must be after a night on patrol.”

“It’s not always that bad,” Bruce said, heading for the freezer that he did, in fact, keep full of icepacks. “And sometimes it’s bad enough that icepacks won’t cut it.” He waved Clark over to the chair by the main workbench. “Take a seat, I’ll just be a second.”

He came back to find Clark looking around the cave with open curiosity, spinning slowly in the chair as he took everything in. Clark had never been in this part of the cave for long enough before to really look around, since Bruce always shifted any conversations back up to the League meeting rooms in the Manor. 

“Should I ask why you have a dinosaur down here?” Clark asked, as Bruce approached with a couple of frozen packs in his hands.

“It’s a long story.”

Clark shrugged, before his face twisted at the unexpected pain it caused. “I’ve got time.”

“Maybe when you’re not in so much discomfort,” Bruce replied, and bit back a smile at how bad Clark was at pretending he wasn’t disappointed. 

He held the icepacks out for Clark to take but Clark just stared at them, shifting a little in his seat. 

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked.

“I –” Clark cleared his throat. “I don’t think I can reach the spot where I need to put them,” he admitted. “My shoulders are too sore.” 

Bruce shook his head, amused. “You could’ve just said so,” he said, spinning the chair around so that Clark’s back was facing him. 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Clark retorted. “Mr. It’s Just a Flesh Wound Even Though I’m Clearly Bleeding To Death Right Now.”

“That only happened once,” Bruce said. “And my attitude was obviously the result of massive blood loss, not any kind of… character flaw.”

“Sure, Bruce,” Clark replied. Bruce couldn’t see his face but he heard the eyeroll anyway and shoved the icepacks against Clark’s back in retaliation. Clark yelped, jerking away from the cold in surprise. “Warn a guy, would you?”

“Only if he really wanted me to,” Bruce said, the easy banter making him slip into the Bruce Wayne persona without him really meaning to. Clark stilled beneath his hands before he tilted his head back and caught Bruce’s eye.

“And how can you tell if he wants you to?” 

Clark’s voice was casual but the look in his eyes was not. 

“He’d have to tell me,” Bruce replied. “I wouldn’t take the risk, otherwise.”

“So you let him take it for you?”

The icepacks were starting to melt, rivulets of cool water running over Bruce’s knuckles and down Clark’s back. Bruce pressed them against Clark’s shoulders more firmly and Clark shivered a little. 

“No,” Bruce said. “My risks are my own to take. And so are his.” 

Clark searched his eyes. Bruce said nothing, letting him look, and eventually, Clark straightened up again.

“You know,” he said, “today’s mission got me thinking.”

“About?”

“My powers have always been enough to see me through,” Clark said. “So I never had to learn to do things the way other people did. But I’m on a team now and if my powers are comprised, like what happened today with the magic… It can leave all of you vulnerable. Not just me.”

Bruce moved the icepacks again, fingertips brushing the edge of the Superman suit where it met the bare skin at the nape of Clark’s neck. 

“What are you saying, Clark?” Bruce asked, and felt Clark's shoulders heave with a deep, deep breath.

“I’m asking,” Clark said slowly, whole body held very, very still, “if you could teach me how to fight.”

**

Bruce wakes up in the dark, the encroaching dawn just barely lightening the shadows by the window. Clark is draped over his side, a huge, solid weight against him, so warm it would be stifling if not for the fact that Bruce knows exactly how cold it can be to sleep in a bed alone. 

Round three, he thinks, staring at Clark’s calm, sleeping face. A lucky number, surely, if Bruce was the type of person who believed in luck. As it is, he’s always been more inclined to believe that the only luck you could really count on was the kind you made yourself.

He carefully pushes his fingers into Clark’s hair, not wanting to wake him yet. Bruce’s stomach does a strange little flip when Clark unconsciously shuffles closer, leaning into his touch. Still under Psycho-Pirate’s influence then, he thinks, and in a moment of weakness presses a kiss to Clark’s temple. _And why shouldn’t I,_ he asks himself, a surge of something unnameable washing him over him; a useless, impotent rage. _Why shouldn’t I just do whatever the hell I want to do, when nothing ever changes? When the end is always the same?_

“Mmmf,” Clark groans against his shoulder, blinking and bleary-eyed. “‘W’s’time?”

“Early,” Bruce says quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

“You’ll wake me?” Clark mumbles, settling back down against Bruce’s shoulder and already starting to doze off. “You’ll stay?”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“Yeah, Clark,” he answers, even though he knows that Clark has fallen asleep again and won’t hear it now. “I’ll stay.”

**

It wasn’t his best plan, he knows it wasn’t, but he’s running out of options now.

Clark finds the fragment of kryptonite in Bruce’s jacket pocket, and the look on his face is almost as much of a gut-punch as the memory of a whole shard of it sticking out of his chest. 

He stares at the lead-lined box for long, long moment, blankly at first, like he doesn’t understand what it is. And then realisation dawns in his eyes, and he looks up at Bruce and takes in the fact that Bruce just stares back, not offering any explanation or protest or even a lie – the silence denying nothing and confirming everything. Every awful, hateful thing, every doubt Clark has ever had about Bruce and what lies at the heart of everything that’s between them.

Clark doesn’t just look hurt or angry or betrayed, although he’s definitely, obviously those things too. No, the worst part is that above all, Clark just looks _sad_. Truly, heartbreakingly sad.

“So this is what you think of me,” he says eventually. His voice is quiet, much quieter than before, when they’d still been arguing about him going on the mission that Victor just called in. “What you _still _think of me.” He swallows. “An alien threat.” 

“Clark –”

“You said I shouldn’t go on the mission because there might be kryptonite at the scene,” Clark interrupts. “But you had kryptonite right here. This whole time, you kept it with you, like you thought that I might –” He stops abruptly, seemingly unable to make himself go on.

Bruce’s mind is racing, going through every possible response he could make and trying to find the one that might still let him salvage the situation, the one that might still convince Clark to stay at home. But the sadness on Clark’s face is starting to clear, or at least be pushed aside in favour of something that’s only marginally easier to bear. 

“I’m just trying to keep you safe,” Bruce says, and really, it’s not even a lie. It’s not a lie at all. 

“With _kryptonite_?” Clark snaps, shaking the box with such precisely controlled force that Bruce knows he’s struggling not to throw it. “With the only thing on this planet that can actually hurt me?” He blinks, then looks away. “Almost the only thing,” he adds, so quietly that Bruce nearly doesn’t hear it. But he does, of course he does, and it takes longer than it should for Bruce to gather the will to reply.

_Ignore it_, he tells himself. There are more important things at stake here._ Ignore his pain. Ignore yours. _Bruce is good at that; he’s been doing it his entire life. 

Nothing of what either of them is feeling is even real. Not now, and not before. And yet – 

“Doomsday was a suicide mission,” Bruce says, and he knows that this won’t be a lie either, that these are truths he’s barely been able to acknowledge even to himself, let alone say out loud. “None of us could have stopped you then, and you wouldn’t have wanted us to – even when you knew how things would end.” Bruce remembers a monstrous claw dripping with blood, remembers Clark’s body going limp and lifeless. “And none of us could stop you now, either. Not without kryptonite. Clark," he says, trying to keep his voice calm, trying to sound like a reasonable man and not one that's about to reach his breaking point. "I didn’t keep it with me because I think you’re – I just don't want you to end up – ”

“I’m not a child, Bruce.” 

Clark’s voice is quiet and firm. Superman’s voice, Bruce thinks. The voice of an actual hero. Most people would find it reassuring but right now, to Bruce, it just sounds like failure. His _own_ failure. The third one in a row.

Clark takes a deep, deep breath. He sets the box on the table between them before squaring his shoulders and looking Bruce in the eye.

“I understand what it means to put on this suit,” Clark adds, as resolute as ever. “I understand the risks that come with it. And I know you thought that this,” he gestures to the box on the table, “was doing me a favour, but…” He stops and shakes his head. “_Bruce_,” he says, almost desperately, like he can see something inevitable on the horizon too – another ending, just not the one that Bruce is trying to prevent. He laughs a little, but if anything it just makes him look even sadder. “You could’ve just _asked_.”

“You’re leaving, then?”

Clark briefly closes his eyes.

“I’m going on the mission,” he says. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

There’s the slightest upwards inflection on the last word, making it unclear whether it’s a question or not.

Bruce doesn’t answer.

“Right,” Clark says, and nods. He takes another deep breath. “There’s no time for this. I’ll meet you at the scene, or back here, or at the Manor, or – whatever.” He scrubs a hand over his face and despite being superhuman he suddenly looks very, very tired. “Do whatever you want, Bruce.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing in a whoosh of air and leaving Bruce standing alone and still and already starting to mourn.

**

He doesn’t go after Clark. He doesn’t go back to the cave either, and after a solid five minutes of people attempting to call him through the comm and through his phone – various members of the League as well as Alfred – Bruce disconnects them both. Instead, he watches the news with the TV on mute, waiting for what he already knows is going to happen.

_SUPERMAN DEAD_, the headline says, as the tickertape at the bottom of the screen questions Batman’s absence. 

Bruce could have gone on the mission, could’ve been there to comfort Clark again as he died. A better man would have done just that, would have put his own feelings aside and been there to support his –

“What,” Bruce says to the empty room, to the apartment that now belongs to a dead man. “Friend? Lover? _Boyfriend_?” He laughs suddenly, overcome by the sheer, ridiculous absurdity of it all, at the unlikely twists and turns in his life that somehow led him here, to this – stuck in a time loop, apparently, condemned to watch someone repeatedly die. Someone who Bruce can't even say with certainty is his friend, let alone anything else. 

A good man would have gone on the mission. If their positions were reversed and Clark the one stuck in this loop, Bruce knows that Clark would have gone. And if it wasn’t for Psycho-Pirate’s influence, if Bruce could actually be sure that what he’s feeling is real, then he might have gone on the mission too. 

But he can’t be sure and he doesn’t know if any of this is real. And the one thing Bruce does know, deep, deep down, is that he’s _not_ a good man. Certainly not one as good as Clark. 

There’s more to it than that, though. 

_Do whatever you want, Bruce,_ Clark said. 

And the only thing Bruce wants, aside from Clark surviving the mission, is to never have to watch Clark die again. 

On the TV, the tickertape changes.

_SUPERMAN’S LAST WORDS A MYSTERY_, it says, letters scrolling across the screen. _EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS CLAIM MAN OF STEEL’S LAST WORDS WERE:_

Bruce closes his eyes and waits for the tilt.

_I’D DO IT ALL AGAIN. _

**

“Not bad,” Bruce said, circling Clark slowly, running a critical gaze over Clark’s form. He kicked Clark’s feet a little further apart and pushed his elbow closer against his ribs. “Not bad at all.”

“Do I get an A, Mr. Wayne?” Clark asked, smirking a little, and it was the smirk, really, that made the decision for him.

Bruce struck out with his leg again, hooking it behind Clark’s ankle as he grabbed Clark by the hips, sending them both toppling to the ground. But he didn't account for Clark’s instincts to kick in and instead of crashing into the mat like he expected to, Bruce found himself suspended in mid-air, almost horizontal, Clark’s arms tight around his waist as they floated a couple of feet off the floor. 

“Points for originality, Mr. Kent,” Bruce said drily, “but I’d say this is grounds for an F.”

“Damn,” Clark muttered. “Sorry, Bruce. It’s a reflex; it’s tough to turn off.”

“What is? Defying gravity, or saving people from falling over?” 

“Falls can be dangerous,” Clark pointed out. His voice was light but a faint flush appeared on his cheekbones and there was something almost hesitant in his eyes. Bruce was suddenly very aware of the fact that Clark still had his arms around him, that they were still pressed together from hip to chest. 

“Sometimes an outright disaster,” Bruce agreed, and knew there would be no going back from this; that if he kept speaking, things would never be the same again. “But sometimes worth the risk,” he added, and waited for Clark to react.

Bruce felt the sharp intake of breath more than he heard it. The sudden rise of Clark’s chest as he inhaled, the warm flow of air against his skin as he exhaled. And then Bruce felt Clark go still, and it took him longer than it would have before to understand why – because before today, Bruce’s heart wouldn’t have started beating just a little bit harder, and Clark wouldn’t have understood what that meant when he heard it.

But it wasn’t before, it was right now, and right now they were practically twined together as they floated in the cave’s gym, Clark’s arms tight around his waist and Clark’s eyes trained on his mouth.

“Are you just planning to hang around all day, Clark?” Bruce asked. “Or did you actually want me to teach you something?”

Clark lifted his gaze and looked him in the eye. “How do you know? How do you know if it’ll be a disaster or worth the risk?”

Bruce shrugged. “You don’t. That’s why it’s a risk.” He shifted his hands, purposely settling them against the small of Clark’s back, where his shirt had ridden up a little. “Sometimes you just have to take the leap and hope for the best.” Bruce spread his fingers, splaying them over Clark’s bare skin, warm from the exercise and maybe something else, too. “But odds of a safe fall are easier to come by for certain people, I think.”

“Certain people?” 

Bruce nodded. “Some people,” he said slowly, “know how to fly.” 

The smile he got in response made his pulse pick up again, most of it contained in Clark’s eyes rather than on his lips. And as those eyes darkened and those lips got closer and closer, Bruce was only just able to stop a smile of his own from taking over his face.

Until, that is, Clark stopped just shy of his mouth.

“Still planning on giving me an F, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce’s smile widened.

“Depends on what the F stands for, Mr. Kent.” He shifted a little, lining up their hips, and Clark made a breathless noise of surprise. “Rookie,” Bruce added, shaking his head. “Did you really think –” 

In the blink of an eye, their positions were reversed – he was on top and Clark was floating on his back beneath him. And gravity being what it was, and Bruce unable to counter its effects, they were now wholly pressed against each other, no space between them at all. No room to hide anything, physically or not.

“Bruce,” Clark said, reaching up and tangling one hand into Bruce’s sweaty hair, the other hand slipping under the back of his shirt. “Shut up and kiss me already.”

“That starts with a K,” Bruce pointed out, even as he lowered his head and did just that. A brush of lips, a sweep of tongue, a barely audible moan. 

Clark tugged him closer. “Gotta start somewhere, right?” He pulled Bruce into a kiss again, slow and deep and thorough. “But just so you know,” he added, panting, flushed, responding so readily to Bruce’s every touch, “I’m hoping we end with an O.”

**

It starts the way the others started, and the facts remain the same: Bruce wakes up in Clark’s bed and still under telepathic influence, and Psycho-Pirate is still at large and impossible to find.

It’s not for Bruce’s lack of trying, but in all honesty, after three full loops – four if he includes the original timeline – Bruce isn’t so sure anymore that finding the metahuman is the key to saving Clark and breaking the loop.

His exhaustion is starting to catch up with him, too. Clark sees it, worries about it, tries to talk to him about it – more than once – but Bruce brushes him off, dismisses his concerns with vague excuses about Wayne Enterprises and open cases and long nights of Gotham patrols. The deception is easy, rolling off his tongue with a lifetime’s worth of practiced ease, but the look on Clark’s face is considerably harder to deal with. 

It comes to a head on the day of the mission, the day that Clark is supposed to die. Bruce isn’t surprised – of course circumstances would conspire again to make him clutch at straws to keep Clark from leaving, and of course Clark would see right through every flimsy protest and every obvious lie. Not all the way to the truth, maybe, but at the very least to the point where it’s obvious that Bruce is holding something back.

“I’ve been patient, Bruce,” Clark says now. “You have things you want to keep to yourself, fine. I don’t expect you to tell me everything about everything. But this is about a mission – about the League. And you withholding information that affects us all –” Clark shakes his head. “What are you not telling me?”

“It doesn’t affect the whole League,” Bruce says, and can’t filter out the note of desperation in his voice anymore. Clark hears it, frowning in confusion, but Bruce pushes on, trying to stop any more questions that he can’t answer. “There’s kryptonite at the scene, Clark. It’s too dangerous for you to go.”

“How do you know that?” Clark demands. “Vic said they only had unconfirmed reports –” He stops suddenly and his eyes widen. “Bruce,” he says quietly, so quietly it’s like he doesn’t really want an answer, “did he get from you? Is that what you don’t want to tell me – that the telekinetic somehow stole it from the cave?”

It’s as good an excuse as any.

“Don’t you see, that’s why it’s too dangerous for you to go.” Bruce steps forward, grabbing Clark by the arms, grip so tight that anyone else would have flinched away. “If the metahuman’s good enough to get past my security systems, then who knows what else he’s capable of. He could have turned that kryptonite into anything –”

“Like you did?”

Bruce falls silent at once.

“I’m sorry,” Clark says quickly. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” Bruce replies, matter-of-fact. “And I deserve it. But Clark – the danger to you is real, you can’t just –” 

“I will, Bruce.” Clark disengages himself from Bruce’s iron grip – slowly, gently, careful not to hurt him – and takes a step backwards. “It’s what we do. It’s what we _all_ do.” He seems to hesitate, then reaches up and cups the back of Bruce's neck. “I appreciate you worrying about me,” he adds, “but the team needs us. Are you coming with me or not?”

And Bruce sees the absolute resolve in Clark’s eyes, the unshakeable strength at his core. Clark isn't known as the Man of Steel just because he's invulnerable. 

“Yes,” Bruce hears himself say, even as the image of Clark lying in a pool of his own blood flashes through his mind, even as he struggles not to start grieving already. “I’m coming with you.”

**

The battle doesn’t go the way it did in the original loop. Bruce got there late and Clark even later, the others already on the scene and easily handling whatever the telekinetic could throw at them. This time, however, he and Clark get there first. And that’s not the only difference.

“Vic didn’t mention these,” Clark says through the comm, as he fights off a seemingly endless stream of vaguely humanoid shapes from twenty feet in the air, semi-transparent and faintly glowing. 

“Psionic constructs,” Bruce mutters, forcing himself to channel the spike of anger he feels into something more useful._ Let it sharpen your reflexes_, he tells himself, _let it drive more force into your blows._ Anything is better than letting it overwhelm him.

But it’s harder than it should be, harder than it’s been in years. Bruce keeps making stupid, rookie mistakes – getting distracted by minor details and forgetting to keep an eye on his six. Because the constructs they’re fighting must mean that Psycho-Pirate is nearby, that he’s finally, _finally _within reach, and after almost five full loops – five full weeks of living with Clark’s impending death hanging over him like the sword of fucking Damocles – Bruce is worn down enough to know that it’s not just anger or exhaustion that’s making him sloppy and exacerbating his mistakes. It’s panic and fear, too. 

“Batman.” Clark’s voice is low and tight over the comm. “What the hell are you doing?”

“My job,” he replies, viciously punching his way through a mass of constructs in an attempt to get to the telekinetic they're trying to protect. 

“The rest of the League are here now,” Clark says. “You don’t have to – look out!”

A construct right behind him explodes, bits of psionic matter fizzling out of existence as they fall through the air, still tinged red from Clark’s blast of heat vision.

“Damnit, that one nearly cut your head off – ”

“I’m getting the metahuman,” Bruce says flatly. “Go find your own horde to fight, Superman.” 

When his words are met with silence, Bruce risks a glance up into the sky. Clark is staring at him with a grim look on his face, jaw tight and mouth pressed into an unhappy line. 

“I’m sorry, Batman,” Clark says. “I can’t do that.” 

“Why not?” Bruce asks, even though he already knows the answer, even though he’s still trying hard not to give up already.

“Because this is the horde that’s trying to kill you.” Clark squares his shoulders and gets ready to dive. “And I can’t let that happen.”

He’s gone in less than a heartbeat, one moment in the sky and the next landing with enough force that the impact makes the ground shake. 

Bruce pushes through the horde again, his punches and kicks even more brutal than before. The rest of the League joins him but even with their help it still takes far too long to get through them all. And when he does, flesh bruised and bones broken and missing at least one tooth, Bruce sinks to his knees and bows his head like his injuries are nothing, like he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing at all.

Because the pain that engulfs him – again, _again_, five fucking times already, why is he going through this _again?_ – has nothing to do with his own battered body, and everything to do with Clark’s.

He’s already bleeding out when Bruce gets to him, struggling to move or even speak. 

“S-sorry,” he manages, choking a little. _On his blood_, Bruce’s brain supplies unhelpfully, _he’s choking on his own blood. _

Bruce shakes his head.

“No,” he says, taking Clark’s hands and just holding them, knowing there’s nothing else he can do now. “_I’m_ sorry. I failed you. I keep failing you.” He can feel something inside him starting to splinter, something about to shatter and fly apart, and his whole body shakes with the effort of keeping it intact. He can’t lose it here, not yet, not while things go unsaid. Not while Clark lies dying. Again. 

“Bruce.” 

Clark pulls one of his hands out of Bruce’s grip. With great difficulty he raises it to Bruce’s face, touching his jaw and leaving a bloody fingerprint against his cheek, just as Bruce left smears of blood on Clark's eyelids that first time. And it’s that one, careful touch, that sweep of Clark’s fingers against his face, that makes Bruce lose it anyway.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, voice cracking a little, clutching at Clark’s hand again and pressing it against his own chest. “I don’t know how to save you, Clark. I don’t know what else to do.” 

It’s a while before Clark is able to speak again, his first few attempts cut off by coughing fits or spasms of pain. 

“Bruce,” he repeats, voice so weak and thin that Bruce has to lean right over him in order to hear it. “Doesn’t… doesn’t matter. Bruce –” Clark turns his head and Bruce feels the brush of his bloodied lips against the shell of his ear. “Enough that you tried.” 

“No,” Bruce says, when Clark has gone still beneath him, when the warmth of Clark’s final breath against his skin fades away. “It’s not enough, Clark.” Bruce folds Clark’s hands over his stomach, brushes his hair off his motionless face. “It’ll never be enough. Not until I’ve saved you… or until I die trying.” Bruce closes his eyes. “I’m doing this again,” he says. “I _will_ do this again.”

It’s a statement of fact, not a question, and this time, he doesn’t even notice the tilt.

**

A second toothbrush by the bathroom sink, a spare pair of glasses on the nightstand. Plaid shirts and worn jeans in the closet, the dresser full to bursting with socks and underwear that weren’t even his. The kitchen stocked with more food than it has been in years, now that it wasn’t just him in the house anymore – at least, not all the time. And a mug on the counter that he definitely didn't buy himself, a bat symbol emblazoned on the side and a little chip in the rim from when Bruce had tried, unsuccessfully, to pry it out of superhuman hands. 

Clark was everywhere in the lakehouse, bits and pieces of him migrating to every room and spreading out like a weed. An invasive species, Bruce thought. After all, Clark hadn’t come here by accident – he’d been invited. And then he’d thrived. 

Victor delivered his report a few hours ago and Bruce left as soon as he was done, announcing that he had to patrol and disappearing without waiting for anyone to respond. 

The metahuman known as Psycho-Pirate had been using psionic constructs to terrorise the tristate area, leaving huge swathes of destruction in his wake. The League managed to apprehend him without too much trouble but it wasn't until today, months after he'd been caught, that they learned the true nature of his crimes was far, far more sinister.

“We already knew that his constructs were dependent on the mask he wore,” Victor said. “We destroyed that mask after he was locked up in Belle Reve, but the mask was only a tool – Psycho-Pirate’s real power is a form of telepathy.”

“A form of telepathy?” Diana repeated. “What do you mean?”

“He can’t read minds or anything,” Victor replied. “But he _can_ manipulate people’s emotions.” He paused and looked uncomfortable. “And he confessed to manipulating ours.” 

“Manipulated how?” Arthur demanded, eyes flashing gold.

Victor sighed.

“Over the past few months, have any of you felt things that seemed to come on very suddenly, without any warning, just... out of the blue? Have you done things that you normally never would have done before?”

Everyone shifted in their seats. No one answered.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Victor said. “I don’t expect any of you to tell me the specifics, but I do need to make a note of the fact the we were all manipulated without our knowledge. And I think we should figure out a contingency plan for this sort of thing, in case it happens again.”

Everyone turned to Bruce then, although it took a moment before he understood why.

Contingency plans, he thought. Of course. They were sort of his speciality.

“Leave it to me,” he said. 

And then he froze, Victor’s words running through his mind until something clicked together, pieces falling into place and forming a whole that made his chest tighten and his stomach drop.

He turned, slowly, and looked at Clark, sitting on the other side of the table. 

Feelings that came out of the blue. Actions that you never would have taken. 

Bruce had suspected from the start that there was more to Psycho-Pirate's powers than just the ability to create psionic constructs. He should have noticed that something was wrong as soon as he started spending more and more time with Clark; he should have known that what was happening was impossible. And now, alone in the lakehouse and surrounded by countless signs of just how far Clark had embedded himself into his life, Bruce knew there was only one thing he could do to rectify his mistakes.

_Meet me in the cave tomorrow, 3pm,_ he texted Clark. _We need to talk._

Clark’s reply was immediate.

_Sure, no problem. _

That was it, nothing more. Bruce set his phone aside. Then he took a single, deep breath, and started packing up all the things he should never have allowed to invade his life in the first place.

_**_

Clark’s bed, Clark’s apartment, Clark’s arm around his waist. Six times he’s woken up here after seeing Clark die, but this time, for the first time, Bruce doesn’t hold himself back. 

He rolls onto his side and touches Clark’s face, slides his fingers into Clark’s soft hair. 

“Round six,” Bruce whispers to no one in particular, but Clark shifts a little, slowly blinking awake. “Good morning,” Bruce adds when their eyes meet, voice still very quiet, hand still raking through Clark’s hair.

The answering smile is soft with sleep and a hundred things neither of them has ever said. Things Bruce would never say. But maybe that’s the problem, Bruce thinks, watching as a sliver of pre-dawn light crests the curve of Clark’s cheekbone, throwing the rest of his face into stark relief. It makes him look like something unreal, something unbelievable, an impossible being conjured up from some kind of old, old myth. Maybe the solution really is as simple as saying out loud the things he’s known all along.

But that’s a problem too, Bruce realises, as Clark reaches up and mirrors his actions, running his fingers through Bruce’s hair before his hand comes to rest against his cheek. _I don’t know anything, _Bruce thinks, _not for sure. _

Not while Psycho-Pirate is still manipulating them.

Clark’s thumb strokes lightly over his cheekbone. “Good morning,” he replies, just as quietly. He hesitates, then adds, “I’m glad you stayed over.” 

Bruce has stayed over dozens of times already; there’s no reason to comment on it now. Unless, of course, that isn't really what Clark wants to say. 

Beyond the words there’s the look in Clark’s eyes, the hand on Bruce’s face, the smile on Clark’s lips. And Bruce understands what Clark is _really_ saying, and why he’s holding himself back. 

He doesn’t think Bruce will want to hear it. 

“Of course I stayed over,” Bruce says, and this won’t be a lie, he tells himself, it won’t be, it’s _not_ – this is how he feels, right at this very moment, and knowing his feelings are the product of outside influence doesn’t make them seem any less real. And if this will tip the balance in his favour when the time comes, when he’s trying to convince Clark not to go on the mission – Bruce steels himself to say whatever he has to say. It will be worth it, he tells himself. For Clark’s life, any price is worth paying. His self-control. His pride. His own life. “I wanted to see you,” he says. “Like this. First thing, I mean.”

Clark’s eyes widen a little. With surprise, maybe, or perhaps something else that Bruce can’t bring himself to name. 

“Why did you want to see me?”

_Because I like the reminder. Because I like how you look. Because I never thought I’d – that we – that you would ever – _

Clark sees him struggling to form an answer and immediately pulls him closer, and this – this is easier, it’s always been easier, this is the way they’ve always said the things they needed to say. Through action and reaction, through the impact of flesh and muscle and bone. But where once that meant a language of brutality, of violence and bruises and blood, now it’s a different sort of conversation, one played out in a softer, less savage key. In the press of lips and the brush of fingers, in the warm slide of bare skin against skin.

“Bruce,” Clark gasps, a little while later, as Bruce pushes in deeper and deeper, legs wrapped tight around his hips. “Bruce, I –”

“I know,” Bruce pants, staring down at the painfully open expression on Clark’s face. “Clark, I _know_.”

Clark doesn’t last long, their fingers interlaced as both of them stroke in time to Bruce’s thrusts. Bruce follows him over not long after that, face buried in Clark’s neck and gasping into his skin, and as they lie there afterwards, catching their breath while the sun rises over the skyscrapers of Metropolis outside, Bruce can’t stop himself from making a silent promise, lips brushing Clark’s throat as he forms the words but keeping them locked within. 

“What was that?” Clark asks, when he realises what Bruce is doing. His hand is a warm and heavy weight against the back of Bruce’s neck. 

“Nothing,” Bruce lies, lifting his head. “Just –” 

The insistent blare of Clark’s alarm saves him from having to deepen the lie any further. Bruce silently vows never to curse at it again. 

“Ugh,” Clark sighs. He flings an arm out, flailing for a few seconds before he manages to turn it off. “Sorry,” he adds, craning his head and stealing a kiss, two kisses, three. “Duty calls.” 

It’s not until later, when Clark has left for work and Bruce is alone in the empty, silent apartment, that he answers Clark’s question truthfully. Out loud, even, when there’s no one left but himself to hear it. 

“Until I’ve saved you, or until I die trying,” he murmurs, repeating his words from the last loop. “I’ll find a way to end it, this time.”

What he doesn’t say – not now or in the last loop or earlier this morning, when he was still wrapped around Clark, is this: he _has _to find a way this time, because he isn’t sure he can take going through this again. 

** 

The day of the mission rolls around, inevitable as the sunrise, and as inevitable as Clark’s protests when Bruce tries to make him sit it out.

“He’s right here in Metropolis, Bruce.” Clark goes to pull his t-shirt off, getting ready to change into his suit. Bruce knows it’s only a courtesy for his benefit – Clark could be out the window and at the scene by now if he really wanted to be. “I have to go, kryptonite or not.”

Bruce unthinkingly grabs his wrist, stilling Clark’s hand at the hem of his shirt. Clark looks momentarily surprised but when Bruce just continues to hold on, saying nothing, he sighs and shakes his head. 

“Bruce –”

And Bruce sees a look on Clark’s face that’s he’s seen before, hears something in Clark’s voice that he’s heard half a dozen times already. He knows with absolute certainty what Clark is going to say and how he’s going to say it, and Bruce is equally sure that whatever he’d planned to say himself will have no effect whatsoever. He hears the conversation spinning out, the arguments and the protests and the anger; he sees Clark leaving and fighting and dying, again and again and again. He stares at the hem of Clark’s shirt crumpled in his palm now, and he sees Clark’s blood all over his hands later, and the kyrptonite in Clark’s chest before, and – all of it, he sees _all_ of it, all of it happening concurrently right here and right now.

It’s like some kind of temporal dissonance, where timelines and timeframes and past, present and future seem to intersect and overlap, like the crash of an intensely discordant wave. He sways, suddenly dizzy, and Clark moves like lightning to keep him from falling but it doesn't help at all – Bruce is overwhelmed by the tilting sensation that comes right before he’s forced to relive the week again, when he’s forced to witness Clark’s gruesome, bloody death again, and again and again and –

_You could’ve just asked. _

Bruce freezes. 

That was what Clark told him, in – god, when was it? Loop three? Four? Bruce can't even remember anymore. But although the context is different now the truth of it remains the same, and maybe, Bruce thinks, maybe he's had the key to unlocking the loop all along. Clark had been right. 

He could have just _asked_. 

“Don’t go.”

Clark sighs. “Bruce –”

“Please.” Bruce licks his lips. “Please, Clark. I’m asking you not to go.”

Clark watches him for a moment, a small frown on his face. 

“Why are you so worried about this specific mission?” he asks. “And don’t give me some bullshit about –”

“You’re going to die.” Clark just stares at him. “You’re going to die,” Bruce repeats, and there’s such a note of certainty in his voice that Clark’s face goes pale. “I’ve – I’ve seen it.”

“What are you ta–”

“I saw it, Clark.” Blood, Bruce thinks. _Remembers_. So much blood. “Kryptonite in your chest, and blood all over your suit, so much you couldn’t even see the symbol anymore. It went right through your heart, Clark, through your heart and your lungs and you could barely speak and I tried to pull it out but I – ” Bruce has to stop and take a breath, a cold wave of grief crashing over him again despite Clark standing right there, despite Clark’s arm looped around his waist. “I saw it,” he says again. “I saw it over, and over, and over, and I couldn’t stop it. No matter what I did, you just –” Bruce shakes his head. “You died,” he repeats, helplessly. “And I kept coming back for you but you just kept dying, again and again and –”

“Bruce –”

“Don’t go, Clark.”

Bruce pushes past his hesitation, past his doubts, past the fact that he knows they’re both still being manipulated by an outside force, and does something he’s never done before – something he knows Clark will see as an admission of weakness and understand what it costs him to show.

He takes Clark’s hands and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m _begging_ you, Clark. Don't go. Just – just stay here. With me. _Please_.”

Bruce forces himself to look up and meet Clark’s eyes. And the look on his face is – Bruce can’t even describe it. Clark doesn’t look shocked so much as utterly disbelieving, and maybe even – yes, Bruce thinks. He’s seen that look before. The circumstances are different now but the light in his eyes is still the same.

Clark looks afraid.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says slowly. “I’ll stay,” he adds quickly, when Bruce opens his mouth to protest again. “But I know there’s still something you’re holding back. Something that might be worse than my dying if I leave.”

Bruce closes his eyes. Of course Clark wouldn’t leave well enough alone. He never has, not even when they first met – Clark Kent confronting Bruce Wayne and asking pointed questions about the bat vigilante of Gotham, questions Bruce hadn’t been able to answer. And now here he is, more than a year later, things between them that should never have happened but did, not asking any questions but still demanding answers all the same. Except this time, Bruce is going to give them. He has to. 

“This isn’t real, Clark.” Bruce’s voice sounds strange even to his own ears; thin and hard, but brittle as glass. “It never was.”

“What isn’t real?” Clark asks, still not understanding.

“This.” Bruce gestures between them. “You and me. Our – whatever this is. It isn’t real.”

There’s a pause before Clark replies, brief but so thick that Bruce almost chokes on it, waiting for him to answer.

“I don’t know how you can say that,” Clark says eventually. His voice is tight, loaded with so many layers that hearing it almost feels like a physical blow. “I know we’ve never really… talked about –” Clark stops. “But I wasn’t – pretending, and I know you weren’t either. I _know_ you weren’t.”

There’s not a shred of doubt in him at all as he looks Bruce in the eye, gaze as unyielding as his body is invulnerable.

But that’s the problem, Bruce thinks. Clark isn’t invulnerable. Not to everything.

“I’m not saying I was,” Bruce replies. “Or that you were. I meant…” Bruce takes a breath. “Psycho-Pirate’s powers aren’t just about making psionic constructs. His true ability is emotional telepathy.”

“And that means… ?” 

“He’s been manipulating us, Clark. The whole team. Making us feel things… that were never really there.” 

“So – ” Clark stares. “What? You think all of this has been a lie? That I don’t – feel anything, for you?”

“Of course you don’t.” Bruce tries to keep his voice even and professional; the voice of a colleague, nothing more. It doesn’t work very well. “Think about it, Clark. When this started, we were barely even friends. We can’t be sure that anything we felt – or saw, or wanted – was anything but the result of his manipulation.” Bruce shakes his head. “He’s still manipulating us even now.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Clark –”

“You can’t,” Clark insists. “I trust you, Bruce.” He reaches out, to cup Bruce’s cheek like he’s done a hundred times before, but Bruce jerks his head away and doesn’t miss the flash of hurt in Clark’s eyes. “I trust you,” Clark repeats. “And myself. And –” He swallows. “And _us_.”

“Clark,” Bruce says again. “We can’t trust any of those things. Don’t you understand? He –”

“You came back for me.” Clark reaches out again, wrapping one hand around the back of Bruce’s neck, preventing him from backing away. “I don’t even care how it happened. In fact, you might be the only person I wouldn’t be surprised to know could time travel through willpower alone.” He tugs a little, gently, and against his better judgement Bruce lets himself be pulled a little closer. “You said it yourself. You kept coming back. You came back for _me_. And that’s –”

The sound of their comms buzzing cuts Clark off. He looks torn for a moment before gesturing for Bruce to answer it.

“This is Batman. Superman is here too.”

“Just letting you know the mission’s done and dusted,” Victor says. “The telekinetic and Psycho-Pirate have been apprehended. They’re being taken to Belle Reve so their powers can be dampened before they’re questioned by the MPD.” 

“Thanks, Vic,” Clark says. “Good work. We’ll meet –”

“Wait,” Bruce interrupts. “Wait. Did you say Psycho-Pirate has been caught too?”

“Yeah,” Victor replies. “And it turns out that his powers aren’t what we expected. That’s the main reason I’m calling, actually.”

Bruce glances at Clark.

“Oh?” 

“Your theory was right,” Victor says. “As soon as we destroyed the mask, all of his constructs disappeared. But get this – he’s actually a telepath, just not one with normal powers. For a given value of normal, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asks, more for Clark’s benefit than his own. He’s heard the report already, after all, if not in this exact way.

“He can’t read minds, but he can manipulate emotions. And I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Victor says, “but he confessed to manipulating ours. Everyone in the League, I mean.” There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause. “I don’t want to invade anyone’s privacy, but I’ll need some data to check whether or not we’ve been able to effectively neutralise his powers. We can’t risk –”

“It’s fine,” Bruce interrupts. “We’ll – Superman and I – we’ll send you some information as soon as we can.” He remembers the first time he heard Victor’s report and adds, “I’ll work on a contingency plan too. We can’t let ourselves be this vulnerable again.” 

He can feel Clark’s eyes on him, but Bruce doesn’t meet his gaze. There’s no point; he already knows what he’ll see there.

“Thanks.” Victor sighs a little. “I guess we should be glad that Psycho-Pirate can’t implant emotions too, or else things could’ve gotten really ugly. But I have to go. I need to set up the tests to –”

“What did you say?” Bruce interrupts, and goes very, very still. This is different. This is – this didn't happen before, the first time around, and if it means what he thinks it means –

“I said I need to set up the tests,” Victor replies. “To figure out how to nullify his –”

“No,” Bruce interrupts again. “Before that.” He finally glances at Clark, but to his surprise, the expression on Clark’s face is guarded and utterly unreadable.

“Oh,” Victor says. “I said that we were lucky Psycho-Pirate doesn’t have the ability to implant emotions too, otherwise he could’ve really screwed us over.” 

“So what can he do?” Clark asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the start of the whole conversation. 

“He can only manipulate what’s already there,” Victor answers. “Turn annoyance into rage, or dislike into hatred – that sort of thing. He can’t make anyone feel anything they don’t already feel on some level.”

“I see." Clark stares at Bruce intently and Bruce finds it impossible to look away. “Thank you for calling us, Cyborg.”

“No problem. I’ll see you guys at the post-mission debrief with the rest of the team. Cyborg out.”

There’s a faint click when Victor hangs up. And then there’s nothing left to distract them, to keep them from confronting the implications of what they’ve both just learned. 

“We – ” Clark starts, but Bruce cuts him off.

“It doesn’t make a difference.”

Clark stares at him, disbelieving. “How can you say that?” he demands. “Vic just said –” 

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Bruce repeats. “You can’t trust anything I did or said while under Psycho-Pirate’s influence.”

“I already –”

“Clark –”

“Stop interrupting me!” Clark snaps. He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Just let me speak. Okay?”

Letting Clark speak means having to listen, and Bruce knows what a risk that is. Psycho-Pirate’s powers still haven’t been neutralised and Bruce is – Bruce is _tired_. Exhausted, even. But he still nods, and waits for Clark to continue, because what else can he do? He’s endured six weeks of this just to make sure that Clark made it out alive. And now that he has, the least Bruce can do is give him the courtesy of listening, no matter how difficult it may be to hear whatever he’s going to say.

Clark takes another deep breath. 

“It was good, Bruce,” he says quietly. “_We_ were good. You can’t deny that.”

“I’m not denying it,” Bruce replies, just as quietly.

“Then who’s to say the real thing – if it wasn’t real to begin with – won’t be even better?” Clark steps closer, reaches up and lays a hand around the back of Bruce’s neck again. His palm is warm, reassuring, and so very familiar that Bruce has to close his eyes against it, not wanting to believe in something that couldn’t possibly be true. “You keep saying I can’t trust anything you did or said while Psycho-Pirate was manipulating us. But that’s just it, Bruce.” He takes another step closer. “I already trusted you, even before then. I already –” He stops, hesitating, and then Bruce feels his forehead press briefly against his own before Clark straightens up again. “I already _wanted_ you, before then.”

Bruce opens his eyes. Clark is looking right at him, eyes bright with any number of things that Bruce can easily read – desperation, worry, fear. But there’s something else there too, something Bruce has seen for months now but never let himself acknowledge, something Bruce still can’t quite let himself name. Something that, Bruce is starting to suspect, might still be there even after Psycho-Pirate’s powers are neutralised.

Clark’s other hand comes up, joining the one already curled around the back of Bruce's neck. Then he leans into Bruce and brings their foreheads together again, closing his eyes as though gathering strength. Superman, Bruce thinks, staring, taking in the worried line of Clark's mouth and the way he’s holding himself so still. Superman, needing to gather his strength for this– for _Bruce_. 

“You keep saying it wasn’t real, but… we make our own realities, Bruce,” Clark says. His eyes flicker open. “This isn’t about a metahuman manipulating us. This is about you, and me, and –” He stops suddenly and looks away.

“And?” Bruce asks.

Clark meets his eyes again.

“And what you want that reality to be.” He slowly pulls his hands away from Bruce’s neck and takes a step back, putting some distance between them. “This doesn’t have to be an ending, Bruce.”

_We make our own realities. _Bruce has just spent six weeks remaking his, and whether Clark was right and he’d done it through sheer force of will or not, Bruce knows there’s no denying that going through it at all – refusing to give up until the very world reshaped itself, until he found the one path where Clark survived regardless of what it meant for what was between them – that was a sign of what Bruce wanted in and of itself. A sign, maybe, of what he wanted from the start. 

Bruce’s life has been full of endings, many of them coming without warning, sudden and bitter and brutal. Endings punctuated by the burst of gunshots and the rattle of a broken string of pearls; by the snap of steel on bone and the ring of deranged, delighted laughter. But out of those endings came things that Bruce hadn’t expected and couldn’t have foreseen, things that made the pain of those endings a little easier to bear. A promise to his parents that turned him into a myth, a myth that a boy in red and yellow and green helped turn into a hero. A hero that fell, that almost succumbed to the demons he’d spent twenty years fighting to keep at bay – until an alien in blue and red reminded him that sometimes, hope could be just as effective as a fist. 

Or – no, Bruce thinks, gaze running over Clark’s face, his jaw tight with apprehension as he waits for Bruce to speak. Not an alien – a man. Just a man. One who even now is offering him the choice to be hopeful instead of despairing.

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce says. Clark frowns a little, wary and uncertain. Bruce clears his throat. “Mr. Kent,” he repeats, and takes a deep breath. “Would you like to go to dinner with me tonight?”

He sees the moment when Clark gets it, when what he’s really saying sinks in. A smile spreads across Clark’s face, small but no less blinding for its size, and his eyes light up as the tension in them gives way to something far, far sweeter. 

Bruce’s life has been full of endings, yes. But it’s been full of beginnings, too. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark answers, voice thick with something Bruce is finally starting to understand, something Bruce can't deny anymore that he can hear. “All you ever had to do was ask.”


End file.
